


Fit

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Confident Draco, Cross-Generation Relationship, Embarrassment, Flirting, Flustered Albus, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Suit Kink, Suit Porn, Tailoring, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Waistcoats, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco needs a new suit. Albus is keen to assist in any way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of wand_in_a_knot, the 24 hour writing challenge held on livejournal. I've edited the story slightly since the challenge was completed, but I tried to keep the spontaneity of the original. Unbetaed.

Wednesday afternoons are always quiet at Dapper and Swank’s, but I’ve plenty to keep me occupied. A lot of shops on Diagon Alley close after lunch, but I don’t mind that we stay open - today, there’s a new delivery to unpack, and I want to straighten up all of the ties. I enjoy serving customers, but I _really_ like restocking the shelves and rails, getting the shop looking just so, and dreaming up new displays for the window.  
  
“Albus?” Marco sticks his head round the stockroom door. “I’m off on my break now. Don’t get so engrossed that you forget to listen out for the bell, OK?”  
  
“Nah, I won't.”  
  
“I was wondering, do you mind if I don’t rush back? Eva said she would be in the Leaky Cauldron this afternoon, and I thought, while the boss is away…”  
  
“Sure, take your time. I’ll cover for you if anyone asks.”  
  
He grins. “Thanks. I owe you one.”  
  
I hear his footsteps heading upstairs again and turn my attention back to the new deliveries. Clothes have always been my thing, in fact, Mum jokes that I was hassling for designer robes before I could walk. I lift the lid of the first trunk and peep inside. On top are dazzling white shirts, impeccably folded. Underneath lie cashmere sweaters in shades of blue and green: emerald, moss, powder blue and a rich, deep petrol colour. I run my hand over the lush softness and let out a sigh. Robes and cloaks are all very well, but, Merlin, Muggles know how to dress.  
  
At the bottom of the trunk are jackets and waistcoats. I take one out and shake out the folds. I’m just admiring the tailoring  – it’s one of the new, sleeker cuts that we’re stocking this autumn – when I hear the tinkle of the bell from upstairs that means a customer's stepped inside.  
  
I take the stairs two at a time and arrive at the top slightly breathless.  
  
_Oh_. There’s a wizard with his back to me, examining the display of winter gloves. He’s wearing a beautiful Muggle overcoat, cut narrow to accentuate the long lines of his body, and even from behind, I know this man. I’ve seen him on the platform at Kings Cross, waving Scorpius Malfoy off, and he was just as striking then. He turns and catches me staring, struck dumb there in the doorway.  
  
“May I help you, sir?” It comes out squeakier than I expected, and, damn it, he looks amused, his lips quirking into a smile.  
  
“I hope so.” He peels off his gloves and tosses them onto the counter. “I need something to wear to a party.”  
  
“Yes, sir. Were you thinking modern or traditional?  
  
He casts his eye around the shop and then back to me, his sharp face seeming to take in every detail at a glance. “Oh, modern, definitely.” He nods dismissively at the rail of formal robes. “Those things are all very well for doddering old men.” He reaches out to caress the lapel of a jacket between thumb and forefinger. “I prefer something a little more this century.”  
  
I swallow. “Do you see anything particular that you’d like to try, sir?”  
  
He turns back to me, one eyebrow raised. Again his eyes sweep over my face. I can feel my skin flushing under my collar, and there’s a long moment before he blinks. “Yes. One or two things.”  
  
I wait for him to elaborate, but instead he begins to take off his coat, his long fingers making quick work of the buttons. Too late, I step forward to assist him, and when he hands me the coat, I fumble and nearly drop it.  
  
Underneath he’s wearing a charcoal suit. Nicely cut. Quite conservative, but with his spare silhouette, he makes it look pretty sharp. “Well?” He turns one way, then the other, gazing over his shoulder at me in a haughty pose, and I realise he’s inviting me to look him over. “What would you advise for me?”  
  
“You’d look good in anything,” I blurt out, and then wish I could swallow my words. “I mean, I think a variety of styles would suit you, sir.”  
  
Again a smirk pulls at his mouth. “Can we forget the _sir_ , do you think? It makes me feel so old.” He undoes his jacket and tosses it onto my arm, where I’m still clutching his coat. Underneath his shirt is crisp and white. This time, the smile he gives me is sly. “And I’m not old,” he tells me.  
  
The thing is, I think he kind of _is_. I mean, I’m pretty sure he was in my dad’s year at Hogwarts. Which means he’s the same age as my dad. The same age as Uncle Ron. But, shit, he looks _nothing_ like Uncle Ron.  
  
“Whatever you say, sir.” _Fuck_. “I mean – Sorry.” Should I call him Mr Malfoy? I feel a complete bumbling nightmare today. I almost pray Marco comes back early, because I am not handling this at all well. I hang up his things, turning my warm face away from him.  
  
“Don’t worry. How about… why don’t you pick something out for me, hmm?”  
  
_Wow_. I love choosing what people should wear. I do it all the time, just in the street and stuff. I mean - I don’t tell them what I’m thinking. But I know Aunt Fleur looks best in silver or pale blue, just as I can see that Hugo would look a lot better if he didn’t wear those tight jeans all the time. I love it when a customer comes in and asks us for help; it’s one of my favourite parts of the job. But dressing _him_ \- Merlin. What if I blow it? What if he hates what I pick?  
  
“You’re dressed far more nicely than most young wizards I see these days,” he goes on. “You’ve obviously got good taste.” His eyes run up and down my body. I picked out my slate grey shirt and a pair of tapered wool trousers to wear today. They’re nothing special, but I thought they looked good in the mirror this morning. Now, however, I can feel perspiration gathering under my arms and I wish I’d gone for something in linen.  
  
“Or is this the uniform here?” he asks.  
  
I shake my head. “No, si –” I catch myself. “No. These are my own.”  
  
He steps closer, reaches to touch my tie. It’s a dark sea green in Indian silk. “I like this,” he tells me. His thumb lingers over the knot. “I like this very much.”  
  
My throat is dry. It’s so warm in here, I wish I could take the tie _off_ , to be honest. “This one is from last spring's collection," I manage to tell him. "But we have similar in stock.”  
  
“Good. I’d like to see whatever you have. And a suit. Modern. Choose what you think will look best.” He turns towards the changing rooms. “I’ll wait in here. Do you need my measurements?”  
  
I shake my head. I’ve become quite practised at fitting by eye. He’s a 27 or 28 on the waist, I’m sure. A 34 inch inside leg. I’ll fit the jacket on him - see how it sits on his shoulders first. I’m nervous… but also strangely excited at the prospect of seeing how my choices look on his frame. He’s going to be a lot more rewarding to dress than the average customer, that’s for sure.  
  
The door to the changing room closes behind him and I let out a deep breath. I loosen my tie a little. _Fuck_. I know exactly what I’d like to see him in. With his hair and eyes, he’d look stunning… I find the right rail and riffle through until I find what I want. _Yes_. I draw my wand and quickly make the initial alterations. I can be more precise if necessary once he’s got it on. Then a couple of fresh poplin shirts. I wonder if he’d consider going without a tie. Depends on how formal the event is, I suppose, and I realise I should have asked that at the very start. Too bad. I realise my hands are trembling a little as I select a couple of ties that would work, if he really wants one. Then silk dress socks, plain black.  
  
I gather everything up and stand outside the fitting rooms, getting up the nerve to go in. I can do this. I’m a professional. I’ve fitted scores of wizards for suits before. I’ve just never felt quite like this while I was doing it.  
  
I knock on the door, soft and steady.  
  
“Come.”  
  
And there he is, stripped to his underwear. It’s not like this was a surprise. He didn’t come into the fitting room so that he could play the bloody piano. But I still have to stifle a whimper in my throat at the sight of him.  
  
He's wearing plain black snug-fitting trunks, low on the hips. There's a certain insolence about the way he stands there, nearly naked, as if he knows exactly how good he looks. His body is just as lean as I expected, but there’s more muscle there than was obvious when he was dressed. The first thing that comes into my mind is how to show this off to best advantage.  
  
Well. Actually. That’s not quite true. The first thing that comes into my mind is what it would feel like to have that body pressing me up against the wall.  
  
I swallow hard and look at the floor. He turns around  – I can see his bare feet, nothing else, and then makes a surprised sound, presumably when he sees what’s in my arms. I risk a glance at his face. He doesn’t look unhappy, but the eyebrow is up again.  
  
“Really?” He drawls the word out, and it’s as if I can feel it vibrating in my stomach. “Are you sure about this?”  
  
I nod. I might be in a complete mess about everything else, but I’m as positive as I can be that he will look fucking awesome in this suit.  
  
He looks at me more closely. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Albus, sir. I mean – Albus.”  
  
“I thought so.” He looks pleased. “I’m Malfoy.”  
  
“I know.” I keep my eyes fixed on his face. Only his face. “I was at school with Scorpius. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Malfoy.”  
  
“Not _Mister_ ,” he tells me. “Just Malfoy. Or Draco, if you want.”  
  
I don’t say anything. Surely I can't call him _that_... but he's smirking now. God, is he laughing at me?  
  
"Don't look so worried," he says. "I was just thinking... I first met your father in a fitting room, too." The thought seems to amuse him, his eyes resting on mine for a long moment before he turns his attention back to the clothes in my hands. “So, Albus. You think that this…” He takes the trousers from me and holds them up. “Is what I should wear?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
He stares at them, then quirks his mouth into a smile. “Very well. I’ll try anything once.”  
  
I hang the rest of the clothes up for him, then turn round, my eyes carefully on the floor. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”  
  
“No. Wait in here.” He sounds as if he's used to people doing what he tells them.  
  
I don’t know what my face does, but when he speaks again it’s more gentle. “It will be far easier if you can make alterations as we go along, won’t it?”  
  
He’s right, of course, and with any other customer I wouldn’t think twice about it. “If that’s what you prefer,” I tell him. I turn to face the wall. The problem is that the wall is a mirror. _All_ of the walls in here are mirrors.  
  
I can hear the rustle of expensive fabric. The sound of his breathing. The soft r-r-r-r of the zip.  
  
“Hmm,” he says, consideringly, and I risk a quick flick of my eyes towards the mirror. He’s put the trousers on. _Just_ the trousers. “Albus? What do you think?”  
  
I turn around slowly. I think – I think I’m in trouble. He’s wearing a pair of perfectly-tailored, narrow-fitting suit trousers in a vivid cobalt blue, and he’s taking my fucking breath away. His chest is bare, his body is lean and strong, his nipples are pale pink and the trousers ride a little low on his waist, his hip bones just jutting above.  
  
He turns around to show me the back. Sweet holy Merlin, the cut of the trousers over his arse. I think I’m fucked.  
  
“What’s your opinion?”  
  
Sweat is prickling at my palms. I try not to squeak. “A little – they’re sitting just a little too low, I think.”  
  
“Pass me my belt?”  
  
“Oh, yes, of course.”  
  
I hear the clink of metal, the supple drag of leather. I try to think about anything, anything else other than smooth taut skin and shoulder blades and the dip of his navel.  
  
“Better?” he asks, and I have to look, properly look, to see if the fit is right, and god, now the trousers are sitting properly, it’s quite clear that he dresses to the left. The colour is even better on him than I thought it would be. It’s such a rich, luxurious blue, and it brings out all of the warm notes in his skin, and he looks like a fucking prince, just standing there shirtless and barefoot.  
  
“Uh, yes.” _Please don’t turn around again_ , but he does, of course, and his arse is totally immoral in these trousers. I mean, I think I might be implicated in a crime if I let him leave here wearing them. I can’t stop looking, though. Not even though my cock is stirring in my trousers, eager and determined, and why the bloody hell did I not wear robes today—  
  
He reaches for the dress socks and slips them onto his feet. It seems a terribly intimate thing to watch. There’s something compelling about his toes pushing into the fabric, filling it out, the soft silk of the sock rolling over his instep and up to the ankle.  
  
“A shirt?” He holds out his hand and I pass one to him. This will be far easier when he’s dressed. It’s just a predictable reaction to having a fit, half-naked man in front of me. He slips one arm into a sleeve and I face the mirror again, but this time I can’t help looking every now and then, my eyes sliding sideways as he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders and begins on the buttons.  
  
How does he do everything so elegantly? His movements are so fluid, and the way he watches himself in the mirror as he does it… There’s a lazy smile of approval on his face that makes my cock ache, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  
  
The shirt is done up now and he starts on the cuffs. The white fabric gleams against his skin, the bones of his wrists shifting in fascinating ways as he moves.  
  
“I, er, didn’t know if you preferred cufflinks?” I ask.  
  
He catches my eye in the mirror. “I can go either way.” He fastens them deftly and tucks the shirt into the waistband. Hell, he looks even _better_ with the shirt on, the belt cinched in to draw attention to his narrow waist, his shoulders perfectly defined. This is the most fucked up situation in the world. Only I could stand here, getting more and more turned on by watching a man put his clothes _on_.  
  
“Do you want to make any alterations before I put the waistcoat on?” he asks.  
  
“No.” There’s a buzzing in my ears. “You look perfect.” My voice cracks at the end. “I mean, _it_ looks perfect.” I’m just making a complete idiot of myself here. If only I hadn’t told Marco to take his time. If only he'd come back, I could get him to take over...  
  
When Mr Malfoy reaches for the waistcoat, I grab at the spare shirt I brought in and hold it in front of me, hiding the bulge in my trousers. If I don’t look any more, perhaps my hard-on will go away. Except that I’m watching, overtly watching, in the mirror, now. When he fastens the waistcoat snugly around his waist, cinching it in against the spare lines of his torso, I groan out loud, making him glance up at me. I can't help it: the fit is _that_ good. The bloody beautiful tailoring of it, the fresh bold colour standing out against the bright white of the shirt, the way it hugs the planes of his chest. There’s something so provocative about how he’s standing there, waiting for me to look at him.  
  
I wet my lips before I speak. “It fits well.” Anything I could say would be inadequate.  
  
“Yes.” He observes himself, an appraising look on his face, then turns and looks at himself over his shoulder in the mirror. We both look at his back view, and something inside me roars with a fierce flame. “Hmm. This colour,” he says.  
  
“It’s perfect on you,” I tell him.  
  
“You think so?”  
  
I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just nod.  
  
“I’ve never worn anything quite like it before,” he tells me, but he looks as if the thought entertains him. He reaches for the jacket and in one fluid movement slips it on. It’s – he looks flawless. It's as if the designer had him and only him in mind when they worked on the suit. His skin is glowing. The blue of the suit makes his eyes glitter, pale and silvery, and the cut of the jacket… The sharp lines accentuate the strength of his shoulders, and skim over the long sweep of his waist, and fuck, I knew it. I knew this was the right choice for him. He looks so _powerful_ , standing there, with his arrow-straight posture and his haughty face, watching himself in the mirror. Like no-one could resist him. No-one. My dick twitches and I press my hand against it in desperation underneath the shirt I’m using as cover, trying to quell my rising need.  
  
We both stand and look at his reflection, and his mouth twitches upwards. “Well.”  
  
“Wh–What do you think?” I ask.  
  
“I think you’re a very talented young man, Albus.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. “I’m pleased. Very pleased indeed.”  
  
A wash of relief and pride swells in my chest. My gaze flicks up to where his shirt lies open at the throat and the sight of it -- the way his Adam's apple juts out, and the delicate notch between his collarbones -- makes me reckless. “Wear it like that,” I blurt. “Just like that. With no tie.”  
  
“Do you think so?” He sounds surprised, but not displeased.  
  
“Yes. And please stay still a moment, just let me…”  
  
The trousers are unhemmed and I use my wand to finish the edges, taking them up so they’ll sit higher on his shoe. “This is how they’re wearing them this autumn,” I tell him.  
  
He faces the mirror again, turns around, gives his reflection a long look, and then a furrow appears between his eyebrows. “You don’t think… " He presses his lips together for a moment. "Tell me truthfully. You don’t think this whole look is a little young for me?”  
  
“Merlin, no.” I wish I could tell him how mouth-watering he is. He fucking _owns_ this suit. A younger man would look like a peacock in it, but he wears it with authority. Like he's earned it. It makes my cock throb against the seam of my trousers, and, hell, there's no way I can go back onto the shop floor like this. I'm dizzy with it, and the words come out in a rush. “You – you look about as good as I’ve ever seen anyone look in a suit.”  
  
He smiles, then, slow and intense, and he’s opening his mouth to say something in that sexy fucking drawl, when I hear the shop bell tinkle and Marco shouts, “Albus? You still down in the stock room jerking off over those new sweaters?”  
  
Hell and damn and– God, what might he say next? I fling open the fitting room door. “ _Customer_ ,” I tell Marco, glaring, then turn to Mr Malfoy again. “I’m so sorry about that. I– I have to go now. Marco can help you with anything else that you need.”  
  
I burst out of the fitting room, still clutching the shirt in front of me, and walk in the most dignified way I can manage, considering I’m nearly bent double with an erection, down to the stock room.  
  
“ _Shit_ ” I hiss to myself. “Shit, shit, shit, shit _shit_.” I’m so hard it hurts. I can’t stop thinking about how it would have felt if he’d have rammed me up against that mirrored wall, and —  
  
“Albus? Are you OK?” Marco calls.  
  
“Fine!” I shout, my voice slightly strangled. “Back in a minute.”  
  
The sweaters and shirts from earlier are lying on the floor in messy heaps. _You still down there jerking off over those new sweaters?_ Fuck. There’s nothing else for it. I fumble with the button and practically rip my trousers open. My cock is hot and sticky in my hand. _Ahhhhhhh_. Yes. _Yes_. I make a fist, push into it, roll my foreskin back and then glide it over the head. God, that man. That _Malfoy_. “ _Uhhhhhh_.” I groan, long and rather louder than I meant to, and then shove my trousers and pants around my thighs so that I can reach my balls with my other hand.  
  
I shuffle backwards, till my back is up against the wall, and close my eyes. Man, that feels so good. I imagine him, still wearing the new suit, wanking me off with slow, firm strokes, his eyes amused and slightly contemptuous. _Fuck_. This is not going to take long at all. I feel a rush of bubbling heat and pleasure building in my thighs, and lean against the wall for support, one hand gripping my cock, the other cupping my balls and squeezing, just imagining his face, the filthy things that he’d say —  
  
“Well, well, well.”  
  
It comes from near the door, and I practically jump out of my skin. My eyes fly open and, Merlin, he’s there in the doorway. Draco Malfoy. In his suit, his new blue suit, so fine and dandy and I’m here all sweaty with my cock in my hand, frantically wanking off in the stockroom at work.  
  
“I came to say thank you.” He raises one eyebrow, and incoherent sounds stutter in my throat. “But I see you’re a little busy.”  
  
I gather enough of my senses to pull at my clothes and try in vain to stuff my poor hard-on back inside my pants.  
  
“Oh, please don’t stop on my account.” The words are casual, but there's an authority to them that makes me freeze on the spot. He comes in and closes the door behind him, then leans against it.  There's a smouldering tension in the way he holds himself. "You liked watching me while I was getting dressed.” He slides his hand into his jacket and rubs his thumb back and forth over the material, gently tweaking one of the waistcoat buttons. “Didn't you? And now it seems only fair that I watch you.”  
  
Oh Merlin. My heart is battering against my ribs. I can’t think straight with him standing there like that and my hand still wrapped around my aching prick.  
  
“Come on, Albus. I don’t think it would take long, do you?" He lowers his voice. "Show me.”  
  
I moan, and without meaning to, my hand strokes once, twice, coaxing out pre-come in a blissful shiver. His fingers move lower and, oh _god_ , I can see the thick length of his erection pushing at his fly. It looks obscene, the narrow cut of the suit making the fabric pull taut over the hard bulge of his cock. “That’s right. Such a clever boy, Albus.”  
  
He palms himself with obvious relish, his eyes intent on me the whole time, and I can’t help moaning.  
  
“I don’t think we’ve got much time before your colleague wonders what we’re up to.” I watch, fascinated, as his belt snicks open and he unzips his fly. His cock is long and flushed, and god, it looks so perfect framed in cobalt blue.  
  
“Yes,” I manage to tell him. I don't even know what I'm agreeing to. " _Yes_."  
  
“Come here,” he whispers. “Come over here.”  
  
I somehow stumble to where he’s standing, wondering if I might lose it just from looking at him.  
  
“Here.” He points to the floor between his feet. “Right here, Albus,” and I drop to my knees in front of him without stopping to think.  
  
His cock slides between my lips without hesitation, as if he's entitled to do this. Then he's holding my hair as he thrusts in, urgent and skillful. He tastes so good, and as I grab hold of his legs to steady myself, the twill of his suit is soft against my fingers, lying over the hard muscle of his thighs beneath.  
  
“Touch yourself,” he tells me, his voice a little hoarse now, and when I do, the pleasure rushes through me like a jolt of electricity. I let him use my mouth, his strokes deep and powerful, and it takes less than a minute before his rhythm stutters and he comes, hard, with a groan that vibrates right through me.  
  
I look up at him as I swallow it all down, the formal elegance of his suit and the raw sexuality on his face. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen. My cock jerks in my hand and I'm coming in long, satisfying spurts onto the floor at his feet.  
  
His breath is fast as he draws his wand to clean us both up, but he gives me a smug look before tucking himself away and zipping up, the suit still pristine. Clandestine blow jobs obviously agree with him; he lifts his chin and now there's a hint of swagger to his stance. “Well. I have to be going, but, thank you again, Albus. I must say, the service here is vastly superior to Twilfitt and Tattings.”  
  
I'm shaky with the aftermath of my orgasm, hands trembling as I adjust my own clothing. I'd like nothing more than to stay sprawled there on the ground at his feet, but I manage to stand and give him a shy smile. I _am_ a professional, after all. “We pride ourselves on customer satisfaction.” It only sounds slightly breathless.  
  
“I’m pleased to hear it. I shall certainly be patronising this establishment again." He brushes my hair back from my face, tilting my head up towards him.  A calculating look comes into his eyes. "You know, this autumn, I have a lot of events on my calendar.”  He rubs his thumb across my jaw, making me shiver at the unexpected softness of the caress. “In fact, I think I shall be needing several new suits.”


End file.
